Warm
by adorkablyme
Summary: Things go a bit awry for Sherlock while chasing down a criminal, leaving John with an obstinate patient and a whole lot of feelings that he really isn't ready to deal with. Johnlock, pre-slash


"John."

"Sherlock."

"John, I do not have a concussion."

"You were knocked head first into a wall," the doctor said, unconsciously cringing at the memory.

John's mind flashed back to earlier that evening and remembered stumbling through his answers to the yarder's questions, and his jumbled attempt to describe the incident as accurately as he could; the details, blurred by confusion and so much feeling, were left mostly forgotten.

It wasn't that he hadn't seen it all happen because of course he had. John was there. He was the back up. The mad man's self-appointed protector, always following Sherlock's lead just a few steps behind. This time, though, it wasn't enough because he was behind. He was too far behind to stop the fleeing, desperate suspect from using the momentum of his escape to knock Sherlock backwards into a nearby wall.

He remembered hearing the sound of skull, Sherlock's skull, hitting cement, and he remembered cold. An empty cold that started somewhere in his chest and spread outward to every one of his limbs, which was wrong because he was sure he had been running and he should have been warm. He ran and remained cold until he reached Sherlock's side and found those pale blue eyes open, alive, and staring intently back at him. Then, finally, he was warm. He was so warm, but it was still wrong because this warmth was different. It also started somewhere in his chest and spread, replacing the cold and the empty with relief and contentment.

The memory faded when John heard his name being called somewhere in the background, and his mind followed the sound back to the present. He was met with that same pair of piercing blue eyes, bright and _alive_, staring back at him. The warmth that hadn't really dissipated, smoldered within him at the sight, and he had to take a second to wonder when he had become such a sentimental fool.

The longer John stared back at them, the more rapidly the feeling grew until it became too much. He didn't understand it, and he was frightened by the suddenness of it. He tore his eyes away and forced the warmth as deep down as he could. Whatever it was, he couldn't spare the time to deal with it now. He was in the middle of an argument with his best friend who could very well have a concussion, for Christ's sake.

John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. He took a moment to mentally punch himself for his bout of untimely internal melodrama, looked back at Sherlock, and caught the detective mid eye-roll.

"Yes, John, I was there, and I'm telling you that I do not have a concussion," Sherlock insisted.

John resisted the urge to chuckle, encouraged that Sherlock certainly sounded normal enough, and said, "Yes, well, since you refuse to go to the hospital to be checked out properly by a doctor, I trust you'll let me be the judge of that."

The scowl on the taller man's face grew, and he countered, "Don't be stupid, John. Why would I need a hospital? You are my doctor, and you are here."

John outwardly flushed, still so unused to Sherlock's special brand of acknowledgement. He felt that annoying, persistent warmth building inside him, and couldn't stop it from leaking outward again at his friend's unintentional praise. That same, confusing warmth was still, impossibly, growing. It really needed looking in to, but it was still not the time because now he felt much too warm, and was having too much trouble fighting back the smile forcing its way onto his lips.

Sherlock, ever observant, caught on the moment John's mind had begun to wander again. He used the opportunity to pull out his phone to begin texting Lestrade, and the noticeable crease in his brow grew even more prominent.

The doctor snapped to attention at the sound of the phone, took notice of the other man's subtle discomfort, and snatched the phone right out of his hands. Sherlock glared in protest and made a feeble attempt at taking the phone back, but John quickly slid the phone into his back pocket.

At last, the doctor was in.

"Sherlock," he began, "take a seat so I can look you over."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Again. "John, I'm fine. Now, if you would please return my phone, I-" he began, cut short by the noticeable change in the demeanor of his usually mild friend.

John's expression had hardened. All of the warmth inside him had been set ablaze by frustration and worry, and he burned. John took a few precise and strong steps closer to his flatmate, effectively herding him backwards onto the sofa.

"Sherlock Holmes, you will sit here and let me examine you," he directed, "and since you insist on naming me your doctor, you will let me do my job properly and answer all of my questions truthfully, or I will call an ambulance to come and collect you. Is that understood?"

Sherlock sat, defiant, under John's gaze and said nothing.

"Sherlock," Captain Watson demanded.

"Yes, John."

"Good," he nodded, and the fire settled, "now look straight at me. Are you feeling any nausea? Dizziness?"

"No, Doctor Watson," came Sherlock's snarky reply.

"Any headaches or soreness since the accident?" John continued, taking Sherlock's head into his hands and examining the area that had made impact.

Sherlock hissed as John's fingers passed over a tender spot, and said, "Just a bit of a headache and some pain, obviously, but it could also have something to do with the fact that someone is currently handling me quite roughly."

John shot him an exasperated look, and released his hold.

"So, what's the diagnosis?" the raven-haired man questioned, while attempting to smooth his ruffled hair, and looking much more pleased with himself than he had a right to.

John sat back with an amused look on his face, and rose from where he had perched during his examination on the arm of the sofa. "There will be no more work for you today," he said, "and I'll be keeping you under observation for the rest of the night to be sure, but you're probably fine. Smug bastard."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a half smile, and watched as John made his way into the kitchen and began rummaging around in the freezer and deep in the back of one of the cabinets. After a minute or two, he returned with a couple of painkillers and a bag of frozen peas.

Sherlock took the pills, gratefully, and stared for a moment at the bag now being pushed into his hands.

"For your head," John explained, "seems you've got quite a lump."

Sherlock let loose an amused huff, applied the bag to the sore spot on his head, and said, "Well, I was knocked head first into a wall."

"Yes, Sherlock, I was there," John teased.

Sherlock smiled that smile he reserved only for John, and it was brilliant. He was all teeth and angles, and looked at him like he was the most interesting thing in the world, and John realized that he was still warm. It spread further, and deeper, and this time comforted more than frightened him, but it still wasn't the time to look into it because he was giggling. They were giggling. And for now, he couldn't be arsed to care about anything else.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! This is my very first attempt at fanfiction for the Sherlock fandom, and I hope I was able to do this great prompt some justice despite my lack of beta & brit-picker. Reviews are always appreciated.


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